If I Should Fall From Grace With God
by r4ven3
Summary: Set after Harry's poorly timed proposal. A light-hearted look at the possibility for a different outcome. Story title lifted from a song written by Shane MacGowan, which may have nothing at all to do with this story...but I really like the title.
1. Chapter 1

_**The title of this story bears only a vague connection (at this early stage anyhow) to the story which is emerging, but I love the title, and decided to use it anyway. My thanks to Shane MacGowan, the song's composer. TBH, the title is the best thing about the song. Perhaps the story will become like the title – who knows? I certainly don't.**_

_**o0o**_

Ruth Evershed glanced nervously behind her before opening the front door to her house and disappearing behind it, the door clicking shut with a finality which reassured her each time she heard it. She was alone at last.

Alone meant she had the freedom to think:

* about something other than work,

* about anything other than the deaths which haunted her waking hours, and despite her continued exhaustion, crept into her dreaming life,

* about Ros Myers, who'd been buried only that day,

* about Harry Pearce, and what he really meant to her,

* about the proposal he'd sprung on her that day.

"_Marry me, Ruth_," was what he'd said, so quietly, and so close to her right ear that she'd almost not heard it.

She'd been so aware of his closeness, and the arm he'd slipped around her waist, that she'd almost missed the words he spoke – breathed into her ear. His proximity almost always left her flummoxed, so that when she spoke words tumbled out of her, despite her planning to be prudent around him, and she found herself speaking to him in ways she would not choose to had she not been able to feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

His timing, of course, had been atrocious. When hadn't it been?

Her response to his question (Demand? Suggestion? Work Order?) had been equally as inept.

R: "What did you say?"

H: "You heard me, Ruth."

R: "Was that a serious question?"

H "You know it was."

R: "It's a _very_ serious question, Harry."

H: "I'm well aware of that, Ruth."

R: "Do you mean it, or are you simply playing with me?"

H: "At a funeral? It's hardly the place to be playing with you."

R: "It's hardly the place to be proposing marriage."

H: "You have a point there, Ruth."

R: "And?"

H: "We so seldom have time alone away from work. I was taking advantage of the moment."

R: "And of my vulnerability?"

H: "If you say so."

R: "Your timing is terrible."

H: "It almost always is where you're concerned."

R: "Do you expect me to be flattered?"

H: "Only if you want to be. What I want is for you to be honest with me."

R: "Honestly?"

H: "Yes. Honestly."

R: "I'll have to give it some thought. That's my honest answer."

H: "I was hoping for something a little more...enthusiastic from you."

R: "Enthusiasm at a funeral?"

H: "The funeral is over."

R: "Are you asking me now because of Ros's death?"

H: "In a way, yes."

R: "How so?"

H: "Her funeral was such a lonely affair. I don't want that for myself, and I definitely don't want that for you."

R: "How will our getting married change our funerals?"

H: "Whichever one of us goes first will have the other at their funeral."

R: "I suppose I should be looking at that in a positive light, then."

H: "Put like that, it doesn't sound so good, does it?"

R: "Harry – why didn't you ask me this question years ago?"

H: "I was sure you'd say no."

R: "But I haven't said yes yet."

H: "I know. But you haven't said no either. That's progress. And you said you'd think about it."

R: "I _will_ think about it Harry."

They had been dancing around one another for forever, neither knowing the tune, the metre, the key or the rhyme. It was as though they had both stepped on a carousel some time 5 years earlier, and had still to find the horse they were meant to be riding together. Ruth was beginning to suspect that their particular horse had either died from boredom or old age, been sent off to the knackery, or else left the carousel altogether to search for riders who at least had the capacity to communicate with one another in clear English.

When she was alone in her house in the evenings, she knew that she loved him. When she was with him, as she had been today at the funeral, she felt a frustration towards him that he was not prepared to take emotional risks where she was concerned. His marriage proposal was an emotional risk, so why hadn't she accepted him on the spot?

Why indeed?


	2. Chapter 2

_**This is evolving as a story in short chapters – a staccato offering. This seems to be the best way of telling it.**_

_**I have also decided to pay scant attention to the goings-on on the Grid. This is just about Harry & Ruth. The Grid will be mere wallpaper in this story.**_

…...

With a glass of wine on the table in front of her, Ruth began with a fresh sheet of A4 paper, and a pen which would not leave ink blotches on the paper. She hated blobs of ink left on paper from cheap pens. They had a habit of getting on the heel of her hand, and from there travelling to other sheets of paper, her clothes, and (inevitably) her face.

She was making lists.

On one side of the paper she wrote _Reasons For_, while on the other side she wrote _Reasons Against_. She already suspected there were more reasons against than reasons for.

Some reasons Against:

*Harry was her boss;

*they had kissed only once – (or twice, were she to count the second lip glance she gave him before she'd boarded the boat at the wharf.)

*sexual compatibility? - (since they had never had sex, and had only kissed one and a half times, this question is impossible to answer, but if sheer tension was anything to go by, then their sexual encounters – were they ever to happen – were likely to be sizzling)

*compatibility generally? - (whilst they had always worked well together, any attempts they made to address any personal issue between them resulted in a drop of their combined IQ of around 50 points.)

*They had only ever been out on one date – (and who in their right mind marries someone after just one date?)

*Uncertainty of feelings? - (they had never told one another they loved the other – although it had been heavily implied in other ways...the day at the wharf being one.)

*Confused feelings on my part...(i.e. Love him madly one day, then want to strangle him with his own tie the next.)

And so then to reasons For:

*I love him (tonight, anyway), and I believe he loves me (I am sure he does, at least most of the time);

*When we are on speaking terms we get on very well, and there is a healthy level of respect and admiration one for the other;

*If anyone needs a woman in his life it's Harry (and I would rather that woman be me than anyone else)

*I cannot bear to live in a world without him;

*I cannot bear to live in a world without him;

*I cannot bear to live in a world without him;

*I cannot bear to live in a world without him;

Which made 7 reasons apiece. That's a dead heat.

Ruth was back to Square One.

Harry had asked – stated, really – the one question she had longed for him to ask for years.

_Marry me, Ruth._

So – if she could not bear to be in a world without Harry in it, and he'd at last mentioned marriage – a state she'd fantasised about for years - why had she not said Yes?

All the reasons she had listed had nothing at all to do with it. If she was being totally, _totally_ honest with herself (and Harry had asked for honesty on her part) she was afraid to accept his offer. There, she'd said it, thought it, and perhaps would now be ready to embrace it, even make it her friend.

Ruth drew another blank sheet of A4 paper from the fresh ream next to her printer. She wrote the heading:

Reasons I am Too Afraid To Say Yes To Harry's Proposal:

By the time she had polished off two more glasses of wine, and the clock on the mantelpiece had ticked over to midnight, she had still not found a valid reason for her to be scared of marrying Harry.

Perhaps tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

_**I apologise if the term, `give it a crack' does not translate outside this continent. (and it means to give something a try) I am assuming that much of the idiom of Oz is also common in UK...we speak the same language, after all.**_

**oOo**

It was late, but Harry was not prepared to go to bed until he'd finished his lists. Perhaps a list would clear his mind of the doubts which had crept into his head since he had asked Ruth to marry him. He was not normally a list kind of guy; he was a doer, not a thinker, but organising her thoughts seemed to work for Ruth, so he was prepared to give it a crack. Anything at all was better than endless glasses of whiskey, which only served to fuel the doubts and fears which threatened to engulf him. He had even considered ringing her to retract his proposal, but he also knew that would be an act of cowardice on his part.

On the table in front of him sat a glass of whiskey, barely touched, and a large sheet of white paper. In his hand he held a black felt-tipped pen. After much mulling it over, he had managed to write:

Reasons She'll Say Yes:

*I believe she loves me. I know she loves me.

*She knows I'm right (perhaps that's doubtful, since she had proved me wrong on so many occasions)

*She feels sorry for me – being old and alone (not a good reason at all, as I have no proof that this is true)

*To confound me (since she confounds me on a daily basis)

*She's curious (about what I have no idea, but surely there has to be some level of mystery to me...my body perhaps?)

*She remembers how it felt that day on the wharf (a really good reason – if she remembers this day as I do, which I'm almost certain she does.)

Reasons She'll Say No:

*She doesn't love me enough (but how is love measured? Love cannot be measured like a cup of sugar, or a half pint of bitter. Can it be measured by a look, a sigh, a touch? Surely actions count as well.)

*She secretly loathes me (unlikely)

*She doesn't really love me, but pities me (and if I can't separate love from pity, then any relationship we may have is doomed from the beginning)

*She considers me a bad risk for marriage (which no doubt has merit, given my track record)

*She can't forgive me for the way in which George died (and this will possibly serve to cancel out any of the reasons she'll say Yes.)

Harry slumped back in his chair and poured half the whiskey down his throat in one gulp. It made him feel better despite his growing depression over Ruth. There were really no good reasons for her to accept his marriage proposal – apart from her loving him, which he was sure she did. Why, even Julia had noticed how they had felt about one another, and Julia was hardly the embodiment of sensitivity and understanding of the human condition. She, whose whole existence revolved around her own needs and desires, which frequently meant climbing the ladder by stepping on the backs of others, was able to see the love he and Ruth had for one another.

Julia had told Harry to not let this one go, and he'd not acted on her advice. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he'd thought Ruth would be with him forever, and that her love for him, which so often shone from her eyes, would ensure she would always be there when he needed her.

_He had taken her for granted, and no woman appreciates that._ Even he knew that.

The death of George, and his own involvement in that dramatic event, sat between them always, and Harry was afraid they'd never ever get past it. It was always their own personal elephant in the room.

After another two glasses – half glasses, really – he was kicking himself for having proposed to her so spontaneously. The omens were all bad:

*he had not prepared properly - he just blurted it out without thinking, just because he was upset about Ros;

*at a funeral – bad, bad, bad.

*He had not kissed her – idiot! (He had wanted to kiss her, but he also had not wanted to push his luck. A proposal _and_ a kiss may have been overkill. Put like that, he should have kissed her, and _then_ considered a proposal based on her reaction to the kiss.)

*They should have been at dinner, or in the moonlight, or on a beach – that is, there was no mood at all!

His sleep was fitful, and he dreamed of her, as he often did.

Ever since Ruth had had to leave England after Cotterdam, he'd had a recurring dream where he was walking along the street, the street busy with people, all moving quickly with somewhere to go. Across the street he saw Ruth walking in the opposite direction. He attempted to cross the street to reach her, but traffic was heavy and he could not find a safe passage across. By the time he made it to the other side of the street she was gone. He looked in all directions, but there was no sign of her.

He again had his recurring dream, as well as another which disturbed him.

He was on a beach somewhere, looking out to sea, watching dolphins and a school of large fish swimming and playing. Suddenly a small boat appeared, and in he could see Ruth and an unidentified man standing and watching him. He waved to her and called out to her. She waved back, and then the boat vanished behind a wave. He sat down on the beach and cried.

When Harry awoke, he noticed the tears on his cheeks.

Life had been _so_ much easier before he had met Ruth Evershed. There had been few of the complications he now experienced. His interactions with women had been simple and straight forward. He'd had no time for emotional entanglement. Despite that, he could not imagine a life without her in it.

She was the reason he got out of bed every morning.

She was the reason he breathed in after having breathed out.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thanks for the lovely and encouraging reviews. I'd not been sure whether this approach would work, and I have little idea of where it's going...**_

**oOo**

The day after Ros's funeral the Grid was frantic. There was something going down. (When wasn't there?)

Ruth had so much to do that she was having difficulty in keeping up. She'd no sooner deal with one set of intel than another five would find their way to her desk. Normally she sailed through her work, thriving on the challenge, but today was different. Today she had other things on her mind.

Her desk phone rang, and she answered, relieved to be distracted.

"Ruth?" It was Harry.

"Yes. Is something wrong?"

"You've put the Croatian notes in the Turkish file, and the Egyptian intel in with the Syrian, and London Bombings intel is in the file marked: Birmingham. Do you want me to go on?"

"No, I'll fix it. Sorry."

"I can't afford for you to not be at your best, Ruth."

"Harry, I'll fix it."

That was the problem as Ruth saw it. Whenever either of them began to open their heart to the other, things in their immediate environment began to go a bit bonkers.

They each lost concentration. Most often, they lost the plot completely.

They lost sight of the ball, as Harry would say.

This was one of those phenomena, like sunspots occurring in 11 year cycles, or birds flying south for winter, or that of there always being an odd sock after the weekly wash.

It was a Fundamental Rule Of The Universe that when she and Harry drew close to one another, shit went down.

It mattered not what contingencies they had in place, _something_ would always worm its way between them and create insurmountable obstacles to them ever progressing their relationship beyond the stage of exchanging longing looks across the Grid.

If Ruth hadn't known differently, she would have been prepared to believe that when she and Harry got close to one another in any way at all, they were capable of disturbing the magnetic field of the very planet itself. Ruth was afraid that if she and Harry ever managed to have sex any time soon, the electrical energy they'd emit would be enough to create power disturbances across the whole of Greater London, so much so that the underground railway system would be rendered inoperable for at least a week!

A connection that powerful had to be treated carefully and with respect. Ruth was not sure she was up to handling the fallout from any level of coming-together she and Harry may create. Individually they were just Harry and Ruth, each talented and magnificent in their own way. Together they had an energy and power which she found to be overwhelming and even frightening. If she thought about it for too long, she imagined she and Harry together as being like an alliance between the USA and China – just too damned dangerous for the rest of the world to ever allow it.

Ruth was in the middle of sorting the mixed up files when she noticed a new email.

_From: Harry Pearce_

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Hi_

_Sorry I was such a grouch. I've been worried about the question I asked you. More to the point, I've been worrying a lot about your answer._

_H_

_From: Ruth Evershed_

_To: Harry Pearce_

_Hi back,_

_Yes, you were a grouch. I have no answer yet. I forgot to thank you for your question. Despite what you may think to the contrary, I was flattered. But the timing of your question was still really appalling._

_R_

_From : Harry Pearce_

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Hi again,_

_I apologise about the timing. Had I known timing was that important I would have attended a seminar on it. It is and never has been my strong suit. The question still stands._

_(I have now decided that I must keep asking the question, and surely eventually the correct moment in time will occur) So, here goes.._

_Ruth, please marry me :)_

_H x_

Ruth was confused and upset all over again. Whilst she was prepared to admire his persistence, his ability to stay on task, she also felt mildly harassed. Had she not made it clear that she was taking his proposal seriously, and that her answer was to be forthcoming? What was wrong with the man? Did he possess some kind of short-term attention deficit?

_From: Ruth Evershed_

_To: Harry Pearce_

_Harry,_

_At the risk of being seen as shrewish, please do not ask me to marry you again until I have at least given you an answer. Were I to say no, you could be forgiven for wanting to ask me again – just in case I might be persuaded. _

_I still have no answer for you, and as much as I admire your devotion to the task, your asking me every few hours will not hasten my decision._

_R_

_From: Harry Pearce_

_To: Ruth Evershed_

_Ruth -_

_I am sorry if I have been acting inappropriately. You see, I have only ever proposed marriage once before, and since that was over 30 years ago, I am out of practice. I am also not sure about the protocol._

_Please forgive me._

_Hx_

Ruth was considering her reply to Harry's email when her phone rang. She was needed at the Chinese Embassy where her translation skills were required.

Harry watched her pack up her desk and leave. He pretended to be on the phone, but his eyes followed her every step of the way. She did not look his way as she passed his office, and he saw that as yet another bad omen.

The strategy he was using wasn't working. He had to try another approach altogether.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry was discovering he had a skill for addressing a meeting on one subject while his private thoughts were occupied by something entirely unrelated to the subject matter at hand. He was in a meeting at Whitehall, and judging by the other faces around the table, he was making sense, perhaps even being erudite and interesting, as he was eminently capable of being. It's just that he was thinking of Ruth, and wondering what part of his brain had been misfiring when he'd decided to propose to her after Ros's funeral. A the time it had felt so right, so _`this is the moment, and I'll not let it pass by me this time.' _ How wrong had he been. In the light of another day, he could see that it was a move which had had little chance of success from the outset.

Ruth was sensitive, and so required a sensitive approach. Harry considered himself to be out of his depth when things of a sensitive nature emerged.

He was blunt and forthright, where she was careful and receptive.

He was used to acting on instinct, while she would wait, while listening carefully, then choosing the most likely option to ensure a successful outcome.

He could be brutal, while she was gentle. Always.

He was impatient, while she held back, choosing her moments and her words.

He was a leader, while she was a supporter. He had taken the lead, but she had not followed – or supported for that matter.

That meant that either his choice was the incorrect one, or his chosen moment to act had been the wrong one.

On the other hand, it was also possible that she was trying to let him down gently. Isn't that what some women did? Women who were kind and decent, as she was.

"Do I have your support on this, Harry?"

"Always, Home Secretary," Harry replied.

"Then that will be all for today."

By the time the meeting had finished, he had decided he'd best draw up a plan. As with all plans, he had to formulate a strategy, and such a strategy must include plans for contingency. The parallels between winning Ruth's heart and a military operation were not lost on Harry. Being a military man, and a good one, he should have had more success with Ruth than he had had so far.

While eating a lone dinner of pasta with red wine – or was it red wine accompanied by pasta? - he began sifting through some strategies of...perhaps not attack, but...winning-hearts-and-minds, or more correctly, winning-one-heart-and-mind.

He had already identified one serious flaw in his behaviour towards Ruth...he had taken her for granted. When he had proposed to her _he had assumed she'd say yes_. That was a lapse in judgement and knowledge of his `target'. He should have known Ruth would respond in a way other than what he'd hoped and expected.

Some alternate strategies:

Assume nothing.

Treat her like she is the only woman in the world.

Next time you ask her to marry you, make it look like it's her idea. (And if you treat her well enough, she will be the one begging you to marry her.)

Be prepared to be flexible

And the contingency plan?

*Be prepared for the plan to fail, because this is Ruth, not some bored bar fly from Berlin with big boobs and the intellectual capacity of a gnat.

*Accept her answer as the final word, but never ever give up hope.

*Be prepared for having to settle for loving her from afar.

*Whatever happens, be grateful for her being in your life, even if she eventually chooses some man other than you.

He felt he was now able to look at his plan realistically.

Previously he had had no plan at all. He'd just blurted out his marriage proposal, wrongly believing she'd say yes. They had loved one another for so long that he had assumed she'd simply go with it, like:

I'll drive you home. You look out on your feet. _OK, Harry. Thanks_

Can I carry that for you? It looks heavy. _Thanks, Harry._

Fancy a drink at the George? _Yes, Harry, I'd like that. _

By the way, how does marriage sound? Would you be up for that? _ Sure, Harry. That sounds lovely. _

He'd been wrong.

He could now see that what he'd created was a horse-cart situation, in which he'd presented Ruth with a cart before he'd given her a taste of the horse! Put like that, it sounded rather smutty, and Harry smiled to himself at his unintentional mental double entendre.

What Ruth had wanted was what any woman would want from the man who claimed to love her, and so have her best interests at heart.

What Ruth wanted, and so what Harry was planning to provide, was some good old-fashioned wooing.

Next morning Harry arrived at the Grid early, but not as early as Ruth. They were the only people there. This was as good a time as any to begin implementing his plan.

Giving himself enough time to make it look like he was checking his messages and generally organising himself ready for the day ahead, he waited for what he thought was a decent interval before stepping out of his office, and walking to Ruth's desk.

"Hi," he said quietly, although they were the only people in the room.

"Hi," she replied, suddenly noticing he was there, and so giving him a look of surprise. "Was there something wrong with my reports?"

"No, nothing. Or rather, I haven't checked them yet. I wanted to talk to you first."

Ruth took her hand off the computer mouse, and gave him her full attention.

"I was wondering -", he began rather lamely.

"I still haven't decided what answer I should give to your question, if that's what you're asking."

"No, Ruth, that wasn't what I was about to say." This was definitely not going as he'd planned. _Why did they have such difficulty with their personal interactions? _

He took a deep breath. "I'm trying to ask you if you'd like to have dinner with me. And in case you're wondering, I haven't made reservations in advance. I've assumed nothing."

He was surprised by her smile, warm and direct, her eyes taking in his discomfort and nervousness. She held his eyes, and for a moment said nothing. Harry felt panic rise in his chest. If she wouldn't go to dinner with him, how much chance would he have of her accepting his proposal of marriage?

"I'd love to have dinner with you, Harry," she said at last. "Just not tonight. I have choir practice. And tomorrow night I'm meeting an old school friend for drinks after work. After that, I'm free."

"Will Friday night suit?"

"That would be fine, Harry."  
"I'll pick you up. 7 o'clock?"

She nodded, smiling at him, her face open and warm. He felt his stomach tumble, and he suddenly understood the term, `to go weak at the knees.'

Harry walked back to his office with a wide grin on his face and a spring in his step.

He had only 55 hours to wait.


	6. Chapter 6

The Grid was frantic for two days in a row. Ruth's analysis had – fortunately – been incorrect on two occasions, but – also fortunately – correct on another four. All field agents were in the field day and night, and even Harry had entered the field on the night Ruth was at choir practice. She'd not been able to concentrate for the whole evening, so worried had she been about his safety. _Harry Pearce, what __are__ you doing out there? You're no longer a young man, you know. _ Twice during the Fauré, she'd begun to sing the tenors' part, causing a titter of embarrassed laughter from the other contraltos.

Once home that night, she took her second sheet of paper from her desk drawer, and added her first reason under the heading:

Reasons I am Too Afraid To Say Yes To Harry's Proposal: 

**I would be too afraid of losing him in some MI-5 operation.**

With Harry out in the field somewhere, the domain of much younger men and women, Ruth was afraid for his life. She had witnessed the effect Fiona's death had had on Adam, and she didn't want this for herself, and nor did she want this for Harry. The prospect of Harry dying suddenly and violently was real, and she needed to acknowledge that. Were she to accept his proposal, she would be stepping into a situation full of insecurity of tenure, and to be on the safe side she would be checking out the prices of plain black dresses – just in case she needed one in a hurry.

**Harry has secrets – many secrets.**

Well, yes, Harry having been a spy for over 30 years must mean he carried a lot of secrets, national, international, as well as personal. It's just that Ruth needed to see clearly what kind of man he _really_ was before she committed herself to him. Would she ever know all his secrets? Did she _really_ want to know them? The secrets spies carried were unlikely to be pleasant topics for dinner conversation, and that was without taking into account the requirements and limitations which had been created by his signing the Official Secrets Act. More importantly, did the fact that he harboured these secrets impinge in any way on their relationship, and the prospect of a healthy and happy lifetime commitment.?

**Being with Harry – just he and me – scares me.**

There was an electrical current between them which was activated whenever they were alone, and especially whenever things got – er – personal between them. While it had not yet happened - meaning she did not know this for certain - Ruth knew enough to suspect that were she and Harry to ever experience simultaneous orgasm (preferably together, rather than with other partners), nothing in their immediate environment would be safe from the fallout, which itself could potentially take on nuclear proportions.

Ruth was also conscious that she was prone to hyperbole.

She was not altogether sure that she was prepared to be partially responsible for any resultant damage to buildings and even people's lives, should she and Harry decide to take their relationship a few steps further. The question: _Did the earth move for you, darling?_ could well take on a literal interpretation.

**Can I trust myself when I'm alone with Harry? **

_Ay, there's the rub_.

(Ruth had little idea why Hamlet's soliloquy should have jumped into her head. After all, were Hamlet to have been alive in 2010, he'd no doubt have been diagnosed with depression and put on a course of Prozac, with the suggestion he get out of the house more...and while he was at it, to keep the hell away from Ophelia!)

If she couldn't trust herself around Harry, then how could she possibly blame him for the feelings she had when he was near her? And she'd agreed to have dinner with him! As Harry would say: _Do the words lion and lion's den not mean anything to you?_

Ruth had developed a habit of absolute professionalism when she was with Harry. She believed that this was the best antidote to her own weakness when around him. Were she to follow her heart and her feelings towards him...well... havoc, destruction and mayhem were likely to be the result, beginning with her own reputation. She was certain that were they to reach a certain stage of physical intimacy – like tongue-kissing, for example – any prior decision to keep herself tidy around him would have been thrown out the window, along with her knickers, and her reputation on the Grid as someone who could be relied upon in a crisis.

Now he'd asked her to dinner, and she'd said yes. No matter how she looked at it, her decision to go to dinner with him seemed like the right one. She was more self-assured than the person she'd been when last they'd been out to dinner (some time before they'd been ripped apart at the wharf.) Ruth was prepared to see where they took their relationship over several courses in a restaurant.

If she was being honest with herself, she was _curious_.

Without saying yes to Harry's invitation to dinner, she didn't see how it was possible for her to rationally and honestly consider his marriage proposal. She felt she at least owed him that. She also owed that to herself.

**oOo**

The next day – Thursday - Harry was away until late afternoon, catching up on sleep he'd missed overnight while he'd been on the field op. By the time he surfaced and stepped out of the pod, Ruth had gone home with a sore throat, stomach upset, and body aches. Harry felt a thump of disappointment when Tariq announced Ruth's absence as he walked on to the Grid.

"Thank you, Tariq," Harry said, his voice silky with sarcasm. "I'll have to write that one up in my daily report. Intelligence analyst goes home crook as a dog. And perhaps you can give me an idea of which dog she's meant to be crook as?"

Once in his office, Harry was tempted to ring her to check how she was, but decided against it. Knowing Ruth, were she ill enough to leave work, she would not appreciate his enquiry, when all she'd want to do would be either to sleep or die.

Whilst Harry was concerned that his analyst had gone home sick, he was also counting the hours – 27 to be exact – until he was planning to pick her up to take her to dinner. His plan was looking shaky. Some re-planning may be in order.

**OOO**

_**Things will speed up in next chapter.**_

_**Only 2 chapters to go.**_


	7. Chapter 7

When she got home that afternoon, Ruth stripped out of her work clothes, threw on an old t-shirt with her knickers, and with a jug of water by her bedside, she crawled into bed and slept.

Which is where she was still at 10 o'clock Friday morning. She'd missed drinks with Tracey the night before, and she'd missed most of the morning in Section D. Whilst she felt terribly guilty about being in bed, she also still felt ill. The nausea had lifted, but her body ached and her head felt like a bowling ball had been transplanted on to her shoulders. On getting out of bed to go to the toilet, the room spun and her head thumped, as though a brass band was inside it, warming up for a performance of Rossini's William Tell Overture.

Pushing herself beyond her current physical limitations, Ruth made two phone calls – a brief one to Tracey to apologise for the night before, and the other to Harry, to let him know she'd not be in to work, and that their dinner date would have to be postponed. She deliberately used the word `postpone', since she wanted to convey in as few words as possible her intention that they go out to dinner some time soon. He surprised her by his concern.

"Have you been to the doctor?"

"What for? This is viral. I just have to sleep until it goes away."

"Are you taking something? Paracetamol? Plenty of liquids?"

Solicitous Harry was a different side to the man. Ruth wasn't sure whether she should feel irritated or pleasantly pleased.

"Harry, I'll be fine," she croaked into the phone. "I just need to rest."

"Don't forget to eat," he added.

Harry was worried about her. He was not used to Ruth being unwell. He had noticed her use of the word `postpone' in reference to their dinner date, and his concern for her was replaced by a sense of anticipation. Dinner would not be tonight, but it would happen some time soon, so he began to formulate an alternative strategy – something spontaneous, something immediate, something

loving.

**oOo**

Ruth was slowly emerging from a deep sleep for the third time that day when she thought she heard sounds from inside her house. She sat up in bed as quickly as she could without her head hurting, switched on her bedside light, and stared at her open door, holding her breath. Through it she could see the glow of a light from downstairs. She could hear kitchen sounds – like a spoon being dropped into the sink, and the sliding of her cutlery drawer, followed by the rattle of cutlery. Whoever it was, he/she was not afraid of being heard.

_Now - who could that be? _

Who was capable of breaking into her house without the police being called?

Who knew her to be unwell?

More importantly, who cared enough to break into her home, so risking her ire, all so he/she could use her kitchen?

Ruth heard his footsteps on the stairs, and ducked down under her duvet, pulling it over her head.

On reaching her bedroom doorway he held back and knocked on the door frame.

"Are you awake, Ruth?" he asked quietly. "I've brought you dinner. Obviously we can't go out, so I thought I'd bring it to you."

Ruth mumbled from under her duvet.

"Are you decent?" he continued. "If you can manage it, get something on and come down to the kitchen. If not, I can bring it up here."

Ruth pushed back her duvet, lifted her head from her pillow and looked at him.

"Christ, you look rough!" Harry said, stepping through the doorway and into the room.

"Go away, Harry," she said hoarsely.

"No, I won't go away." he replied, slowly walking towards her bed, then leaning over her, peering closely at her face. "You need someone to take care of you. How does chicken soup sound?"

"You made _chicken soup_?"

"Uh-huh. Chicken soup and bread rolls, followed by banana custard."

"You made _banana custard_?"

"Well, no. I bought it at the shops, but I made the soup myself. My mother's recipe. Get into something warm and come downstairs."

When he left her room, Ruth got out of bed, realised she was feeling much better, and went to the bathroom for a wash, and to tidy her hair. Back in her bedroom, she changed into grey tracksuit bottoms, an Oxford University windcheater, and her fluffy blue slippers. Her muscles still ached, but not as badly as they had at lunchtime, and certainly not like they had that morning.

Ruth's bedside clock read 8:08 pm.

She stood in the doorway to the kitchen and watched him while he rinsed two bowls and some utensils he'd used to complete his preparation of the meal. The only light came from a lamp which Harry had brought in from the loungeroom, and plonked on the end of the sideboard. It washed the whole room in a rosy, old-fashioned, intimate glow.

"I thought that candles might be inappropriate," Harry said, having turned from the sink to see her looking around. "This is meant to be a comforting and nurturing meal, not a seduction."

"Glad to hear it," Ruth said, managing a smile in his direction.

They sat at the table opposite one another.

Ruth suddenly felt conscious of her scruffy appearance. Harry was dressed casually in blue jeans, an open-necked shirt, and a thick blue jumper with a V-neck, both of which allowed her to gaze at his neck and throat without appearing pervy. Despite her still-dull headache and her washed-out body, she was able to appreciate how beautiful he looked, more so in the half-light thrown by the lamp on the sideboard. The word _`delectable'_ slipped into her mind from some deep cavern in her subconscious, closely followed by the word, _`scrummy'_ .

"What?" Harry asked, noticing her scrutiny.

"I'm seeing another side of you."

"A good side, I hope"

"Definitely a good side. A _very_ good side."

Harry smiled across the chicken soup and bread rolls.

"Any man who can make chicken soup gets a thumbs up from me," Ruth continued.

Conversation between them dwindled. Words were not needed. Their looks to one another across the table said all they needed to say. The situation rendered them each a little shy.

After they'd eaten, Harry sent Ruth into the loungeroom, while he cleared the table and washed the dishes. He was doing no more than he'd be doing were he at home alone. Whilst his plan had begun as a strategy to win Ruth's heart, her presence across the table from him reminded him that there were times when this woman he loved needed someone to look after her, and he wanted that someone to be him.

After he'd finished in the kitchen, Harry opened up the rug which he'd brought inside from his Range Rover, and arranged it across he and Ruth as they sat together on the settee in her loungeroom. She pulled it up until it sat just under her chin. To Harry, she looked about twelve, and he had an overwhelming urge to protect her. As much as he wanted to hold her close to him, he knew this was not the right time.

They sat side-by-side, not touching, speaking only in occasional drablets about things inconsequential, until Ruth began to yawn.

"Time for you to go back to bed," Harry commented. "Come one."

"Tell me you're not going to tuck me in," said Ruth.

"Only if you want me to."

"I can manage, thank you."

Harry took that as his cue to leave.

"I left the rest of the soup and the custard for you," he said, as she walked him to the front door. "Make sure you eat regularly."

"Yes, Mum," Ruth said, a smile on her lips, as she opened the door for him.

Harry reached towards her and lightly kissed her cheek before he disappeared into the darkness.

Ruth felt a sense of loss as she walked back into her living area – now Harryless - and turned out the lights.

She could get used to Harry being around. The pendulum was definitely swinging in his favour.

**oOo**

_**I'm sure `drablet' is not a word in the English language – or possibly any other language. But I like it, which is why I used it. (On the other hand `driblet' is a word, but I don't like the sound of it – thus, I invented `drablet')**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Thanks for all the encouraging reviews to date.**_

_**This is the final chapter. It was not meant to be this long, but it took a turn of its own around half way through. I had not intended for there to be any raunchy bits in this fic, but H & R had other ideas!**_

_**I decided to make it one long chapter, rather than string it out into two.**_

_**In part this chapter was `inspired' by my making pea & ham soup this week when the weather turned cold, except that my soup turned out to be too thick to plough! Next time I'll go easy on the split peas. I trust Harry's soup was better than mine.**_

**oOo**

Next morning Ruth was woken by the ringing of her mobile phone. It was Harry.

"How are we this morning?" he asked.

"Just because you made me chicken soup and saved my life, it doesn't entitle you to conducting medical scrutiny, Harry. I think I'm feeling a lot better. Do you want me to come in to work?"

"Of course not. I'm just checking to see how you are."

"I'm a lot better." Ruth swallowed. "My throat's still a bit sore, and my neck's stiff. Otherwise a little sore all over."

"Stay where you are, and don't plan anything for dinner."

"I don't think I'm up to going out, Harry."

"We're eating in. What are your thoughts on pea and ham soup?"

He arrived just after 8:30 pm laden with a pot of pea and ham soup, a Black Forest cake, and two bottles of wine, one red and one white.

"Sorry I'm late," he said as walked ahead of her towards the kitchen. "It's been a bugger of a day at the coal face."

"I could have come in," Ruth suggested.

"I was happier knowing you were here, getting well."

"First you save my life, then you plan to get me drunk, so you can do God-knows-what," Ruth observed, as she followed him, a bottle of wine in each of her hands. "I'm not falling for that one!"

Harry wore black jeans, a grey shirt open at the neck, over which he wore a cream-coloured V-neck jumper, the kind worn by cricketers. Ruth thought him heart-breakingly handsome. She felt under-dressed in her blue jeans and thigh-length polo neck jumper. Mostly, she felt like a fifteen-year old on her first date.

The protocol for their meal had been set the night before. Harry prepared the kitchen, heated the soup, and served it in bowls from Ruth's own cupboards, accompanied by small bread rolls from the market in a basket on the table between them. Unlike the night before, he served wine with the meal.

They ate in comfortable silence, occasionally commenting on the food, the wine, Harry's day at work, which had been frenetic.

Ruth smiled to herself.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"I was just thinking," she replied, looking into his eyes, "how if we were married, this is what it would be like. Sitting here, talking about our day over a home-cooked meal."

Harry thought his heart would stop right then and there. He knew that what he said next would be crucial.

"It wouldn't be so bad, would it?" he said quietly.

"No, not so bad at all," she replied, equally as quietly.

The spell was broken by Harry's phone ringing. Without taking his eyes from her, he took the phone from his pocket and turned it off. Had there been a fish aquarium within reach, he would have aimed the phone for the hole in the lid. There being no aquarium in sight, he put the phone back in his pocket.

"That might have been important," Ruth said.

"Nothing is as important as this."

"The country's security isn't important?"

"Bugger the country's security! _This_ is more important right now."

Ruth put her spoon on the table next to her bowl. She swallowed hard, but didn't take her eyes from Harry's.

"Do you have something to say to me, Ruth?"

Ruth nodded.

"Then tell me."

"I have the answer to your question. The one you asked me the day we buried Ros."

"And what would that answer be?"

"Yes. Yes, please." Ruth spoke in a whisper, but given they were sitting in silence, gazing across the table at one another, he heard her words loud and clear.

"Say that again," he said.

"Yes," Ruth answered, more loudly this time. "My answer is yes."

"Do you mean it?" he asked, just checking.

"I mean it," she replied.

Harry got up from the table, almost tipping his chair, so sudden was his movement. He walked around the table to her side, took her hand in his, and lifted her to her feet. He drew her into the circle of his arms and held her there, his arms wrapped around her, while she tucked her arms around his waist. They stayed that way for a very long time. Then Harry moved slightly and bent down to kiss her lips. It was a soft and gentle kiss – not the kind to send them into a frenzy of disrobing and looking for the nearest bed, but the kind which says: _You are at home here, with me._

He lifted his head to look at her. He saw in her face a reflection of what he felt at that moment – a softness, a gratitude, and an immense love. He again took her hand and led her into the loungeroom, where they again sat side-by-side on the settee. This time they sat closely, their thighs touching, their hands entwined. Since they'd kissed, neither had spoken – with words, at least. No words had been necessary.

Harry took the rug from his car, which had been flung over the arm of the settee the previous night, and arranged it over them both. They nestled down into the settee, the rug over them, their hands linked, and after a while, after the tension of the past few days had left their bodies, they slept.

Ruth was the first to wake. Through the kitchen doorway she could see the clock on her microwave. It was a little after 11 o'clock. She'd been asleep for an hour and a half. She watched Harry as he slept, thinking his face in sleep was the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen. How could she ever have considered turning down his proposal?

"Stop it," he mumbled, his eyes still closed.

"Stop what?"

"Watching me. You woke me with your watching." He opened his eyes and smiled at her.

Ruth reached across to him and kissed his mouth.

She felt his lips move beneath hers, and he slipped an arm around her. Their lips parted, allowing the other closer, their mouths hungry. One of Harry's hands slipped under her jumper, and she felt his hand glide over her bare abdomen towards her breasts. As she gasped, he stopped kissing her and pulled away, withdrawing the hand which had been exploring her skin.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, his eyes on hers.

"Would you stop if I wanted you to?" she asked.

"Of course I would. I wouldn't do anything you didn't want me to. I love you."

Ruth pulled back from him to get a better look at him.

"You mean that, don't you?" she said.

"What the `I wouldn't do anything you didn't want', or the `I love you'?"

"Both, actually."

"I meant both. If you want to take things a bit more slowly, then I understand. And I've loved you for forever. I can't remember a time when I didn't love you."

"Harry, why didn't you tell me that the day you proposed?"

"But I thought you already knew."

Ruth cradled his face in her hands. With one hand she trailed her fingers from his cheek down his neck, his throat, and then to his chest, twirling her fingers through his chest hair until she reached the button on his shirt. She slowly undid the button, and continued her exploration of his chest until she was stopped by the neck band of his jumper. In one swift move, Harry removed his jumper, so that Ruth could continue to undo each of his shirt buttons, one by one. Harry had been undressed by women of royal birth in obscure European countries, courtesans from all over the world, women who sold secrets to men who in turn used and admired their bodies, but he had never ever experienced anything as erotic as what Ruth was doing at this moment. And he still had his pants on! Her eyes drank in his body, and under her gaze he felt like the most desirable man in the world.

The difference was the power of love; her eyes spoke of it in volumes.

When she reached his belt, she slowly released his shirt from the confines of his jeans, flicking open the last two buttons, and slipping the garment from his body. As much as he wanted to throw Ruth over his shoulder and carry her upstairs to her bedroom, he knew he wouldn't. This was her time, and her discovery of him. He could wait. Ruth leaned in and kissed his chest, his stomach (which tended to hang over his belt when he sat like this), his throat and his neck, occasionally flicking his skin with her tongue.

Suddenly, Ruth pulled back from him, and removed her jumper, revealing a black bra which barely covered her breasts. Harry reached out to touch her, but she grabbed his hand and pushed it away. She reached behind her back and deftly removed her bra. He gasped at the beauty of her. She then stood up and took off her jeans and her shoes. All she wore were a pair of quite brief black knickers. Harry leaned back against the back of the settee, wondering how much longer he could hang on.

Ruth leaned close to him, her nipples teasing his chest, and gently kissed him, firstly on his neck, and then his jaw, his cheek, and then his mouth. His lips parted under hers, and hungrily they explored one another's mouths. Harry felt her hands on his belt. She slipped it from the belt loops, then began to undo the buttons on his jeans.

"You'll have to help me with this," were the first words either of them had spoken. He lifted his buttocks while he undid his jeans, slipping them and his underwear down his hips, so that he kicked them both under the coffee table. Ruth noticed that he was more than ready for her.

"Put the blanket on the floor," she said.

"Ruth," he complained, "I'm 56 years old, and you're asking me to get on the _floor_?"

"The floor!" she ordered.

Together they tumbled on to the blanket, where Harry turned her over so that she lay beneath him. From that moment he took charge. While his mouth feasted on her breasts, his fingers slipped beneath the band of her knickers and found her to be as ready for him as he was for her. He had waited so long for this. It had been years.

"Look at me," he demanded, as he entered her.

They moved together until they came – not together, but almost.

"I love you," he said quietly into her ear as they settled together on the blanket, nestled between the settee and the coffee table in Ruth's loungeroom.

"I love you too, Harry," she responded. "I always have."

They lay together until their breathing settled.

After some time, Ruth spoke. "Listen," she said.

"I can't hear anything," he replied, puzzled.

"That's just it..no emergency vehicles. No screams of agony."

"Were you expecting them?"

"I used to think that if you and I ever got around to doing...what we've just done... the energy we generated would cause power blackouts, or maybe even earthquakes."

Harry laughed into her hair. "Perhaps that's why it's so quiet. An earthquake has swallowed the whole of London except us."

"This means you'll have to stay here with me overnight, I guess," Ruth added. "and you can make me breakfast in bed tomorrow."

"Yes please to the first statement, and yes also to the second."

They basked in their post-loving glow, his arm around her shoulders, her face nestled into his neck. They lay that way until they began to feel cold.

"Harry," Ruth said, "why didn't we think of doing this years ago?"

He turned towards her and lightly kissed her lips. "I used to think about it daily," he said into her lips. "Over time, I just accepted that we never would."

And after a while, Harry again spoke. "Time for bed," he said. "We can have the Black Forest cake for breakfast."

**oOo**

Fin


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